


On the Death of Anadûnê

by Starshower



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Explanations, Gen, Genocide, Iterations, Motivations
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-03
Updated: 2016-10-10
Packaged: 2018-08-19 07:55:27
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 991
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8196745
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Starshower/pseuds/Starshower
Summary: The world changes. The isle drowns.One million people die.Why?—and why?—and why? (Five attempts at explanation.)





	1. On Ethics, Given Metaphysics

Eru grants their petition, and they consider how they might best honour his design. There are many Men that dwell upon the Gift of noble spirit, with faith and mercy and grace in their hearts; yet among them also are hateful ones, bitter and angry, who curse the high things and wreak harm on all around them. 

And yet also, these two are not divided. For there are some others who unite both kinds in one being, though they understand this not, and many bonds of love and kindred run between all. It would be a great crime to separate them: they must be delivered to Ilúvatar as one, that none will in their grief be turned away from him, and doom themselves. 

The thing is certain among them, when another thought comes. For are there not many in further east who dwell in darkness? And is it not the true design that those of light will walk among those of later days, bringing them wisdom won of many ages, and thoughts of beauty not seen so late? Then surely there must be some part of Andor preserved, and sent forth, that the blessing shall be put forth and continued, though its birthplace is no more. 

That too is certain, and this also: that this burden is great to be else than chosen, and can be left only to those would choose it, if they knew their purpose. 

The path is set. The Faithful are sent. The isle drowns. A million souls are rent from their bodies, gone out to a fate the Valar know not.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Andor and the Gift are both Numenor {as is Anadûnê}, I'm just being pretentious.)


	2. On the Balance of Power

Melkor put forth his power into Arda, and made each part of it his by pure force and strength of will. But in the end, it diminished him, left him weak and vulnerable to even the incarnate Children. Annatar has learnt the correct lesson from this. The Valar, he thinks, have _not_. 

Numenor is full of their power: direct, given, lost. Its light, its trees, its people. Even the substance of its very earth is somewhat other. To erode their influence would be beyond him, he thinks, briefly. But Annatar does not need to contest this: he can _take_ it. 

With Ar-Pharazôn run off to die somewhere west, there is no claim held to stop his way. The million here will serve to turn it, he thinks; to suffer and twist until their wills subdue it. With the full power of the Gift at his back, he can strike east, and pull the whole world into alignment with his thought. There will be little then that even the Valar can do to do prevent it. 

The world bends. The seas rise. And as Ulmo's waters swallow his land and designs whole, he thinks, and thinks, and screams.


	3. [On pure, unadulterated crack]

See, sometimes, when a Mummy Vala and a Daddy Vala love each other very much—  
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
—and then boof! goes the entire island.

   


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (sorry)  
> (not sorry)


	4. On Valarin Sin

The Valar petition their father for the power to remove the threat. Eru Ilúvatar grants this with heavy heart: the wills of his children are made to remain ever-free, and those who do not choose to hear those thoughts he has sent ought not be compelled to do so. And yet. There is threat there, deliberate and malicious and capable, and he will not grant their right to threaten all.

He sees as it is done, and not before. He feels the weight of a million of his children thrust upon him too soon, unwilling, unsought. He hears their sobbing, screaming pain.  
This was not their right.

He separates two worlds in that instant: that garden of perfect bliss, where all is easy and simple, and the wild world, where all proceeds according to what it is, difficult, complicated. He winds a single thread between the two, that those who might be suited best to where they are not might pass between them, and only those.

Those of his first thoughts, and highest, and _smallest_ , are not suited, and may not pass.

In no world must this ever happen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (By "thoughts he has sent", I mean the Ainur; I'm just being pretentious.)


	5. On Right, and Wrong

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for misogyny, and victim-blaming.

They deserved it, all of them, don't you know? For their arrogance, their presumption. They defied their nature, and the Valar's orders. It was so arrogant, so presumptuous; they had to be stopped. They sailed west, and threatened the bliss of Valinor. But it was more than that. They were wrong in every way! They were wrong, and they all deserved to die.

Every woman was vain, and shallow, too concerned with femininity, but also too proud, too harsh, too loud and unobedient. Every man was violent, and wicked, too greedy for existence, but also weak-willed, and faint-hearted, almost womanish in their decrepitude. The old had all lived lives of iniquity, from the first moment they drew breath; the young were all stupid, and selfish, and already dreaming of out-doing their elders in wickedness. They were adulterous, incestuous, rapists. The babes in arms bit, and the unborn kicked. They all deserved death, and every one of them worse than drowning. 

Oh, except the Queen. She was beautiful, and pale, and sad. It was so beautiful, how sad and pale she was.


	6. On Death.

There is no mercy, no justice, no reason. The waves devour the innocent, the gentle, the kind. A father cradles his daughter close, singing in her ear; a sculptor stands rigid at her work, long ceaseless strokes until the weight drags her down; two beggars clutch each screaming other under a crashing awning; three children run, climb, scrabble at the slope of the Meneltarma, too slow, too _here_. 

The trees snap. The cliffs crumble. The libraries swell, the mosaics scatter; coloured glass shatters; a vast organ sounds one bellowing note. They are here. They were made here. For that, they die. 

Tar-Míriel watches the water rise from the west, and curses the Powers that sent it, their arrogance, their cruelty, their hate. She dies with her anger spilling forth from her lips, and she is **proud**.


End file.
